


No Words

by whereitwillgo



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pot not LSD, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Dome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereitwillgo/pseuds/whereitwillgo
Summary: "You're looking into each other's eyes and you would want to look away, but you wouldn't, and you could see yourself in the other person."Spring of '67. John and Paul spend an evening in Paul's "meditation dome" smoking, talking, and avoiding some specific words.





	No Words

John laid back on the rug and exhaled a lungful of smoke. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, hundreds of stars appeared through the glass ceiling above. Marijuana smoke hung in the air, drifting in unseen currents like a thin cover of clouds.

“When does Her Majesty return?” John asked. He held up the smoldering joint to Paul who was stretched out next to him on the pile of blankets and pillows.

“Ages and ages, Johnny.” Paul propped himself up on an elbow to take a hit. John felt a wave of deja vu; a hundred hotels, Paul’s bedroom on Forthlin Road, the filthy cots in Hamburg, a blanket in Calderstones, the familiar calm of lying next to Paul. “Quit borrowing trouble.”

With Jane gone, there were even more visitors than usual at Paul’s house; more drugs, more late nights, more conversations that stretched until dawn. Paul had stopped asking whether John would be making the drive home. At some point he would make his excuses to whoever remained, and set off barefoot through the garden, and leave it up to John whether he would follow.

“Five months is an awfully long time to be parted from your lady love, Miss Jane Asher, star of stage and screen.” John imitated a posh, sonorous interviewer. ”Tell us, Beatle Paul, has the heart grown fonder?”

“Well, that's a good question," Paul answered as he did when he’d heard a question a million times, but wanted to seem like he was only beginning to ponder it now for the current intrepid reporter. He fought a smile. It was a point of pride not to be the first to break during these little games. “I don’t know, really. Same level of fondness, I reckon.”

John gasped. Paul took another hit off the joint.

“It seems as though the filthy poets have lied to us.”

“Can't trust a poet, y’know,” Paul said, the words pushed out through the smoke he held in his lungs.

“Course not. Disreputable lot. We're poets, did you know that?” John said.

“That can't be right. No, no. I'm afraid not.” Paul shook his head resolutely, with a dismissive chuckle. John recognized the mannerism, the voice; spot on Jim McCartney when he thought they were being frivolous, too high on themselves and their prospects. They shared a glance - _showed ol’ Jim didn’t we?_

“Lennon and McCartney. Like Keats and fucking... fucking...”

“Shelley,” Paul said, raising his hand like a good school boy. 

“Shelley! Thank you. Yes. Fucking Shelley.”

“Fucking Shelley. Fuck Shelley. Fuck Fucking Shelley.” Paul caught a tune off his little Scouse sing-song and hummed it to himself. John felt that off-balance thrill he only got from Paul, like leaning over the ledge of a tall building but knowing you couldn’t fall.

“Fucking Shelley fucks fucking sea shells by the fucking sea shore,” John said and was rewarded with a giggle from Paul.

“Couldn’t really fuck a sea shell, though, could ya?” Paul looked at John, doubtfully, and they both fell apart, racked with laughter, until their sides hurt and their faces were red. They took big gasping breaths to bring themselves down again.

John removed his glasses, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. He set the glasses aside and discarded the last, useless nub of the joint. He faced Paul, close enough to see every freckle on Paul’s nose, every thread of color in his eyes.

“But how will you see the stars?” Paul said like an ingenue, all fluttering eyelashes and soft voice.

“Oh, he wants poetry.” John waggled his eyebrows.

“Go on, Shelley,” Paul said, and nudged him in the ribs. “Show us what you got.”

“I don’t need my glasses, darling, all the stars I need are here in your eyes.”

“Bit generic,” Paul said. His nose wrinkled with merry distaste. His mustache made him look younger, like a boy playing dress up. His eyes were glassy, a spacey grin plumped his cheeks. John felt himself grinning like a madman in return. “That pap work on the girls, then?”

“I save all me best lines for you," John said.

They lay on the floor silently, looking into each other’s eyes. Pattie had introduced this game, he didn't know where she had got it. It wasn’t a casual thing at all. You weren’t meant to just look at the other person, but to search for yourself in them. Pattie was so sweet; she had rambled on about connection and harmony in that lovely little-girl way she had. It probably hadn’t occurred to her the trouble people could get into doing a thing like that.

All of London had been swept up in the same sort of non-sense. Love, love, love. The only reason you needed. Everyone agreed that it wasn’t about sex. Only uptight, suburban bores would think it was as simple as sex. It was about being turned on. It was rebellion and communion, at once.

John wasn’t sure he believed it, but he couldn’t deny that something was changing. They were the same, but the world had tilted around them and everything had a different meaning now. They could sit cross legged on the floor in a room full of people and stare into each other’s eyes and nobody thought it the least bit strange. It had changed him and Paul, too. There were fewer ups and downs between them, fewer doubts and justifications. They indulged in what they wanted, without worrying what it meant.

John had a feeling it couldn’t last, any of it. They couldn’t really go on holding hands and preaching love forever, could they? At some point, the world would come crashing in around them, as dull and impervious as ever.

“Can I ask you something?” It was part of the ritual of the eye contact. You had to be open, remove the barriers between yourself and the other person. And that meant you must be honest. No matter what.

“Hmm?” Paul said. He caressed John’s face, brushing his finger tips over his sideburns, his thumb across his lips. John felt like he was being memorized.

“Do you love me?” 

“Course, I do.” Paul answered quickly, looking bewildered. 

“I mean. Do you… Are you—”

“I know what you meant, John.”

Paul was smiling too wide when his lips met John’s for it to be a proper kiss. He peppered John’s face with them, then kissed down his neck. His mustache tickled John’s collar bones. John had a million questions he wanted to ask. Did he really know what John meant? John barely knew what he meant. He was hoping Paul might help him understand it, but Paul had a way of making words seem irrelevant.

Paul grabbed his belt loops and pulled him closer. He wrapped himself around John. The pot made him sensitive to every point where their bodies touched; he could feel his own touch on Paul’s skin. Like a mirror, or an echo chamber, the pleasure reverberated, growing louder and richer as it bounced back and forth between them.

Paul slid his hand between them and felt John’s hardness through his trousers. The feeling spread through his entire body, out through his buzzing limbs. Paul pushed his leg over John’s hips, rolling him onto his back. He hovered there a moment, gazing down, before leaning in to kiss him again. John felt a syrup-sweet jolt in his chest. A swoon, he thought, wanting to laugh.

“Off," Paul said. It was barely out before Paul reared up and tore his own shirt off over his head, tossing it away with an unnecessary flourish. “Now.”

John fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, the giddy rush of lust making his fingers thick and uncoordinated. Impatiently, Paul pulled the zipper on John's pants and dragged them down his legs.

“Eager,” John said.

“Keep up,” Paul said in a stern tone he reserved for rambunctious children and misbehaving pets and John.

John had only gotten his shirt half off before Paul was back, pushing his arms up. The shirt tangled between his elbows, caught behind his head. Paul pinned him, pushed his knee between John's and settled his hips against him. John tried to pull free of the tangled shirt, desperate to touch Paul, but Paul held him down firmly.

John wrapped his legs around Paul, his heels against Paul's ass, pulling him forward. The feel of their cocks grinding together through their underwear thrilled John. It reminded him of all the years they’d spent pretending it was an accident; shifting by fractions of an inch to press his morning stiffy against whatever part of Paul was nearest, struggling to breath evenly so Paul wouldn’t know he was awake, wondering each time Paul shifted if he’d been caught. The hair on the back of his neck stood up thinking of the morning Paul had shifted back into him so he was suddenly nestled firmly against Paul’s arse. John had rolled away, like he’d touched hot coals. “What’s wrong?” Paul had asked, like the only thing that needed to be settled between them was why he’d moved away. He had a way of making words seem like an afterthought.

Paul gingerly removed the shirt tangled around John’s arms and tossed it aside. John wasted no time in wrapping his freed arms around Paul, crushing their chests together, and running his hands everywhere he could reach. Paul slipped away and surround him again like sand under footsteps.

They kissed for what felt like hours. He loved that about being high: moments made their own time. It was like a waltz he couldn’t remember the start of, tongues sliding past each other in some unconscious pattern he didn’t remember learning. They kissed until they were squirming against each other like teenagers, flushed and desperate.

Paul pulled John’s underwear down just enough to wrap his mouth around his stiff cock. John groaned and thrust into Paul’s mouth. The world narrowed to the feel of Paul’s tongue. John felt like his skin was on fire, he couldn’t hold still. It wasn’t what he wanted.

John pulled Paul off by the hair. He kept his mouth open, expecting John to push him down again. John nearly came at the sight of his wet lips open and ready.

“What—“ Paul look up at him, confused.

John pushed him back onto the pile of blankets and cushions, reversing their positions. 

“John — “ He tried to sit up and John pushed him back down, kissing across his chest, down the sensitive trail of hair on his belly. Paul smelled like tobacco and cologne, but underneath that was the grass and sea air smell he’d had for as long as John had known him.

John pushed Paul’s cock into his mouth all at once, greedily. He would have devoured him if it were possible. He took his time on his way back up, swirling his tongue around the head until Paul swore. He felt light headed from the weed, his blood vibrated in his veins. The feel of Paul on his lips and tongue was as pleasurable as anything he’d ever felt.

Paul ran his fingers through John’s hair, through his sideburns and downward to run his thumb along John’s lips where they met his prick. Paul circled his cock with his fingers and followed John’s mouth up and down. Soon John was following Paul’s hand, Paul’s pace. John wanted to laugh at him, trying to be the one in control even now. John grabbed Paul’s wrists and held them down. He removed his mouth entirely for a moment. Paul’s cock bobbed invitingly, slick and shining from John’s saliva. 

“John — don’t— just —would you…” He couldn’t seem to decide which approach that would make his case best. John waited to see whether he’d beg or issue a command. He hadn’t decided which one he’d rather hear.

Paul tried to free his wrists, but John had all the leverage and it was useless. John waited patiently, smiling up at him.

“John, please. I need…” 

“I know what you need.” John kissed the inside of Paul’s thighs.

“Bloody hell, would you…fuck, I’m going mad here.” He was on the edge of anger. Paul was always one to have his way, but get his dick hard and deny him what he was after and he was downright petulant. It amused John to no end.

John thought about asking again. Do you love me? Paul would say it now, if John asked him to. He’d do anything in this state. The thrill of the idea lasted only a moment, before his fear came crashing in. Wanting more than people were willing to give was how you lost them.

He refocused. Paul was watching him, his eyes were tinged with concern, making his face even more unbearable to look at. Whatever he said, or didn’t say, his face never hid a thing.

John pulled Paul’s cock back into his mouth and Paul gasped with shock and gratitude. His hips bucked off the blankets, trying to encourage him to move faster. But John couldn’t be persuaded, he moved at his own pace. He pulled his head up and Paul’s cock slipped from his mouth. Without the use of his hands, he had to chase after it with his lips and tongue. It reminded him of bobbing for apples. He kept his eyes on Paul, who groaned appreciatively when he was finally back in John’s mouth.

“Fuck, yes. That’s — yes. God, John.” He rambled on incoherently as John finally obliged by speeding up. John could listen to him mumbling swear words forever.

Paul came, writhing and twitching, with a guttural cry that was trying to be John’s name. That gave way to a gasping, euphoric sob as John continued to suck and lick him to the last drop. John sat back on his knees, his cock screaming for attention. Paul was out of his mind, his head lolling back and forth on the pillow, panting like he’d run a mile.

John took himself in hand and Paul made a weak attempt to reach out for him, but didn’t seem to be able to raise his arms. He managed only to grab hold of John’s thigh and squeeze insistently, trying to convey to John to move closer. The sight of Paul blissed out, weak as a kitten, desperate for him to be closer was more than enough to push John over the edge. 

He came across Paul’s chest with a strangled moan. Paul watched him coming like it was a fireworks display, mouth hanging open in awe, eyes unblinking. John managed to collapse into the blankets at Paul’s side, face pressed against Paul’s neck, one arm flop carelessly across Paul in the wet mess on his chest. 

He could feel the pulse in Paul’s neck galloping like a horse under his skin, but the rest of his senses hadn’t returned yet. Paul’s heartbeat was the only measure of time passing. He lay there for ages feeling its tempo slow.

Paul grunted softly in the back of his throat. John responded in kind. Neither was coherent enough to speak yet, but there was the urge to make sure everyone was present and accounted for, as it were. Some times they didn’t need words.

**Author's Note:**

> An abrupt ending, but they refused to move...
> 
> Couldn't believe I'd never read a story that takes place in Paul's meditation dome, so I wrote one. I'm not 100% sure when the dome in Paul's garden was completed, so don't going ruining everyone's fun by worrying about facts.
> 
> This was written for the lovely Sunqueen78 and Savageandwise. #1 Sex Dome Fans. I tried to make it happy and sexy and it ended up emo. Sorry. :)


End file.
